Tropile looked over his shoulder. Citizen Boyne was fingering
the textured contrasts of a golden watch-case which had been his
father's--and soon would be his son's. Boyne's eyes were closed and he
wasn't listening.
Tropile leaned forward and deliberately put his hand on his wife's arm.
She started and flushed, of course.
"You _can_," he said, "and what's more, you will. You can help me get
out of here. I insist on it, Gala, because I must save you that pain."
He took his hand off her arm, content.
He said harshly: "Darling, don't you think I know how much we've
always meant to each other?"
She looked at him wretchedly. Fretfully she tore at the billowing filmy
sleeve of her summer blouse. The seams hadn't been loosened; there
had not been time. She had just been getting into the appropriate Sun
Re-creation Day costume, to be worn under the parka, when the messenger
had come with the news about her husband.